


Destiny's Child

by Talullah



Series: Trick-or-Treat Ficlets 2014 [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 06:59:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2642477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/pseuds/Talullah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maglor walks in Tirion for inspiration and finds instead a new friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Destiny's Child

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keiliss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keiliss/gifts).



> For keiliss, who asked for "Maglor (either alone or with 'elf of choice'), a pomegranate, gold, the phrase 'destiny's child'."
> 
> [Disclaimer/Blanket Statement](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/profile)

**Tirion upon tuna, 1409 Years of the Trees**

The market was bubbling. Colour, sound and the wildest mix of aromas competed for attention, creating a lively landscape. Maglor inhaled, closing his eyes to better focus on the scents and sounds around him. He loved how the competing fish merchants found a rhythm in their calls, how the hooves of the tanner’s donkey punctuated the cobbled stones with their slight limp, and most of all, how the children plucked away at Lindalon’s instruments adding to the cacophony.

The first light of Laurelin warmed him so pleasantly that, had he had a chair, he would have surely fallen in the sweetest sleep. The thought brought another in tandem: he had recently started writing a pavane of sorts about resting in the perfumed gardens of Lórien until Father put an end to an ode to a Vala’s home with a sharp quip. It was a dreadful little piece, though. Maglor did not resent that it was cut short, but the way Father was increasingly distancing himself from the Valar made him uneasy. 

“Excuse me, m’Lord,” a shrill voice called, starting Maglor. It was Mastiel, the baker, with a cart emanating the most delicious fragrance of warm spice bread.

Maglor smiled, placing a finger to his lips, as he got out of her way. It was doubtful that he had not been recognized as Finwë’s second grandchild, but there was no need to call attention to it. 

He ambled through the market, stopping here and there for a closer look, until he reached the last stand. He could keep climbing the street, he thought, squinting in the direction of Mindon Eldaliéva. The white tower gleamed, pristine, on the top of the hill. A strange foreboding clenched at Maglor’s heart and he turned back, to the market, but now many merchants were closing shop and the magic was starting to fade.

One figure caught Maglor’s eye in the middle of the dismembering crowd. A young elf, tall but not overly, dark hair and dark eyes, handsome enough despite or because of his choice to wear black from head to toe, stood gazing at the crowd with a mix of rapture and concentration on his face. 

The intensity of the elf’s stare awakened Maglor’s curiosity. Behind the elf, leaning against the wall, lay a box and some rectangular shapes, covered. Maglor noticed that the elf’s hands were stained of various colours. His curiosity took the best of him.

“What is it you trade?” he asked as he reached the elf, startling him out of his trance. 

“I don’t trade, my Lord,” he replied, as he delivered a hasty, but quite perfect bow. Despite his apparent youth, the elf did not sound intimidated by him.

“But you are doing something.”

The young elf kept his face straight. “Maybe.”

Maglor was amused. The young one was ballsy, that was for sure, avoiding his question like that. He could make a good diplomat, one day, carrying on like that.

“And you have no wish to share what it is with me.” Maglor said.

The elf’s lips twitched ever so slightly. “You would not appreciate it, my Lord.”

“Makalaurë, if you please.”

“But that’s your mother-name,” the elf objected.

Maglor grinned. “Yes, but I like you. I can tell that we are going to be friends.”

“We probably will not cross paths so soon. And besides, you don’t even know my name.”

“You have me at disadvantage there, true. Would you be so kind?”

“Erestor.”

“How original.” Maglor was now truly intrigued. “Will you tell me why you were observing the crowd so intently, now that we are properly introduced?”

“Why do you care, my Lord?”

“Makalaurë, please. I recognized in your stance something of my own. I wonder if we share the same motivation.”

“And what would that motivation be, my Lord?” Erestor replied.

“To create. Or better said, to translate. Life feeds art, song. Joy, maybe?”

“I’m not too sure about joy,” Erestor tersely replied. “And I am glad you did not mention the triteness of love. That would have been disappointing in someone of your caliber. I have heard you sing, Lord Kanafinwë.”

Despite Erestor’s jaded tone Maglor felt in him that earnestness that only youths could manifest. He felt like having a little fun. “Oh, we have an art critic amongst us,” he said, a soft laugh taking the edge of the words.

The only visible sign of embarrassment Erestor showed was the reddening of his cheeks and ears. “I did not mean to be presumptuous, my Lord.”

“Makalaurë. Will you show me what is under those covers?”

Erestor nodded. “In atonement for my rudeness I will. But in private, please.”

“Fine. Can I help you carry anything?”

“I can manage, thank you.”

Maglor followed Erestor down the street, now cleared from the merchants and the children and the shoppers. Erestor stopped by a blue door and let them in. Light filled the room. Maglor stood speechless, absorbing what he saw in the walls and the floor and even the single spare chair. Sketches, finished canvases, works in progress, the room was an explosion of colour.

“Is your curiosity satisfied, my Lord?” Erestor asked.

Maglor realized he was gaping but he continued advancing through the room, examining the scattered pieces one by one.

“This is brilliant,” he said at last, picking up a smaller piece from the window sill. He turned it around in his hands, first examining the art on the front side, and then, the other side of the canvas.

“You did all of this? Look at this, look at the light reflecting off the water and the Telperion’s light gleaming on the girl’s hair. There are stars in her eyes… and the _light_ … everywhere…”

“You like them, then?” Erestor asked.

Maglor lightly traced the painting with his forefinger. “I love the texture. The colour too. And above all, the intensity. Where did you come up with the idea of paint on a canvas instead of the wall? And these are… alive. Painting is supposed to be decorative, educative and boring. These are… something altogether apart.”

“You understand…” Erestor whispered. “I thought you might.”

Maglor faced Erestor, surprised. “Why wouldn’t I?” 

Erestor shrugged. 

“Or better who wouldn’t?” Maglor insisted.

“My parents had other plans for me. Court. Some clerical position.”

“You must not let your talent be wasted.”

“Easy for you to say, oh scion of giants.”

Maglor laughed. “Less, Erestor. Can I come by tomorrow? Can I bring someone?”

“I am not sure. No one outside my family has seen these. Actually, I painted the largest part of these after moving here, so even my family… I mean, you are the first one to see them all like this…”

“Alright. One step at a time,” Maglor conceded. “But these are pretty impressive. Or at least I find them so.”

Erestor inhaled. “I must admit I am overwhelmed, hearing those words from one as accomplished such as yourself, and with such tremendous parents.”

“You will get over it,” Maglor quipped. “So, tomorrow?”

Erestor nodded. “Tomorrow.”

“See, I told you we were going to be friends.”

**Paris, 1863 D.C.**

“You came.” Erestor said, without taking his eyes off the painting before him. He could recognize the rhythm of Maglor’s steps anywhere in the world, the almost imperceptible punctuation his gait had acquired during the Dagor Bragollach.

“Lisbon was drab,” Maglor said.

Erestor turned sharply, just in time to see the playful smile reaching Maglor’s eyes.

“And I suppose that was the only reason you hoped on a train.”

Maglor’s smile turned into a chuckle. “Of course.” Relenting, he asked, “So, how is this _Salon des Refusés_ going?”

Erestor looked around. It was so late that only the janitor remained in the room. Discretely, he held Maglor’s hand, tracing the scars the Silmaril left with his finger.

“Oh, it’s a nightmare, but it’s also quite exciting.” He tugged on Maglor’s hand and took him for a tour, discussing each painting, asking questions about Maglor’s trip, commenting on the current gossip. 

When they returned to the starting point, Maglor said, “This one. This is the portrait of me you were working on when I left? The one I was not allowed to see?”

Erestor nodded.

They both examined the painting. The subject could be seen from mid-chest to the hips, clad in crimson velvet. One hand held a lyre as if it were a natural extension of the limb, while the other reached for an open pomegranate on a table. A gold ring glinted with the candlelight on the hand that was reaching. The open palm revealed extensive scars.

“Interesting and quite a departure from your most recent work. The technique is flawless, but it is less about the light and more about the composition and the mood. The cropped framing is quite original around here. There is something about it that is more in line with the Pre-Raphaelites than with your new friends.”

“You hate it.” Erestor said. Before Maglor could reply, he added, “Of course you do. Even my ‘friends’ as you call them, hate this piece. They say it does not fit in. I thought the purpose of a Salon of Refused was to not fit in.”

Maglor chortled. “I do love that viperish tongue of yours.”

“Don’t get me started. I am disappointed, though.”

“Why?”

“I thought you’d like it.”

“I do like it. You captured the essence of me. The hand holding the lyre is the best of me, and what comes naturally. The scarred hand, though, reminds me of things that are never to be forgotten. The blood I have spilled. The emptiness of fulfilling the Oath. The helplessness of never quite reaching whatever it was we were trying to accomplish. And then the gold. The alliance that made you recluse of these shores, by my side.” Maglor squeezed Erestor’s hand lightly to take the sting off the words.

“For such a skilled musician, you fall quite short on symbolic interpretation. You have it all wrong.” Erestor placed himself directly in front of the painting, as if defending a small child.

“The pomegranate is not the blood, but rather the promise of sweetness and the fertility of ideas. The hand doesn’t quite reach it, as you stated, but not because it never will or never has, but because it always strives, even in the face of adversity, even under the harshest duress. The scars are proof that wounds heal and may leave their marks but not vanquish you forever. And the ring… I crossed the sea for you because I wanted to. My hands have blood too. I waited two ages for you, before finding you in a dingy shack in Forochel. My place is by your side and yours by mine.”

Maglor put both his hands on Erestor’s shoulders. “Peace,” he said. “I saw you point even before you made it. I _know_ you. It’s just the way I feel. And I do love that you are still so earnest,” he added, trying to lighten the mood.

“We have been over this,” Erestor said, placing his hands on Maglor’s. “You were destiny’s child. You all were. And the good you did do, that you still do, has to count for something.”

Maglor sighed. “We had better go. It’s closing time and I want to take you out to dinner. Will you let me? Then I can tell you all about how the light bounces off everything in Lisbon and how I found the perfect getaway in Sintra. It’s so green and pure there. Reminds me of home. You will love it there.”

Erestor relented, letting Maglor’s hands go. He followed him out of the gallery and into the street. Raindrops glistened in every surface with the light of the streetlamps and of the grave full moon. A bohemian couple walked ahead of them, conversing softly.

The freshness of the night helped lifting the veil of sadness that had fallen over Erestor. Maglor would never change. They lived nicely, enjoying one day at a time, everything seemingly fine. But when the past was broached, the weight of regret returned, devastating everything they had built time and time again. Maglor would never be free from it. Sometimes, Erestor just prayed for the Dagor Dagorath to come. But no one listened to prayers anymore.

He took Maglor’s hand, in the now empty street. “Have you written song about this Sintra yet? There’s bread and cheese and wine at home. I’d rather spend the evening with you than out.”

“I would love that too. I missed you.”

Erestor glanced at the elf by his side, only to find a warm smile. “So did I,” he answered. The shadows were not gone yet, but he would play his part. By the end of the evening, they would be sated in all ways possible, holding each other loosely, falling asleep. And then tomorrow would be another day.

_Finis  
November 2014_

**Author's Note:**

> \- Lindalon, is from http://www.realelvish.net/quenya_names_occupation.php  
> \- On using Erestor as Erestor’s Quenya name and on the whole, but isn’t Erestor Sinda thing, I went with this take: http://lizardcouncil.proboards.com/thread/1896


End file.
